


Against the Dying of the Light

by Arvanion



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Final Battle, Gen, Paragon Commander Shepard, Priority: Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvanion/pseuds/Arvanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Do not go gentle into that good night.</i>"</p><p>With the final assault on Earth underway, Shepard's friends and comrades fight for their lives and their future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Dying of the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Do not go gentle into that good night,  
>  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  
> Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_

 

Admiral Hackett stood on the bridge of the _Normandy_ and wondered what it would be like to watch the world burn.

He had realized, distantly, that something of this sort was inevitable, but he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He had been away when the Reapers had invaded and begun their long, slow strangling of the human race. The Admiral had been forced to make the most difficult decision of his life that day: to sacrifice the entirety of the Second Fleet, and all of the brave men and women who crewed those ships, in order to buy time for the Third and Fifth to escape.

He would have relived that decision every day, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently, but the urgency of the situation afforded him no time to grieve. He had known that he would be forced to make more difficult decisions as the war went on, and ask others to do the same.

In the end, the woman standing before him had made the most difficult decisions of all.

Commander Shepard, captain of the Normandy and the _de facto_ face of the resistance, had toiled without pause since the evacuation of Earth. Asked to accomplish the impossible, she had delivered again and again: rescuing the turian primarch, curing the genophage, even putting an end to the three-hundred year war between the quarians and the geth.

Shepard was a legend, a figure who seemed almost larger than life despite her rather average height. When her name was mentioned, a dozen accounts of her past deeds would emerge—she had won the loyalty of the krogan leader, a quarian admiral, and one of the most brilliant scientists the salarians had ever produced. She had the respect of the last rachni queen and of the asari who controlled half of the galaxy's underworld. She had fought a thresher maw on foot and won—hell, she had fought a _Reaper_ on foot and won.

If those machines were capable of having nightmares, it would be Shepard who haunted them.

The myth of Shepard's invincibility had grown so great that her rare failures were devastating, to her and to everyone else. Thessia had been a setback, without a doubt, but even that had helped to lead to the downfall of Cerberus, and the assault on Cronos Station.

He was tempted to ask her how she was doing, to see how she was holding up, but he knew that she would prefer to focus on the task at hand: the final task.

He nodded to her. “Commander.”

Shepard saluted, crisply and cleanly, her movements showing none of the exhaustion that she must feel. “Admiral.”

He returned her salute. “Are you ready to bring the might of the galaxy to bear on the Reapers?”

“Yes, sir,” said Shepard, her voice tight with anticipation.

They clasped hands briefly in greeting. Shepard's hand was hard and callused, covered with burns and scars: a hand accustomed to wielding weapons, not greeting politicians. Her recent stint as a diplomat hadn't robbed her of any of her fire.

Hackett gave her a small smile, feeling the motion pulling at the scar on his face. “Then let's make sure the fleets are ready.”

Shepard glanced over to her comm specialist, gesturing for her to go ahead. After checking her terminal for a few moments, the diminutive woman nodded in affirmation. “All fleets reporting in, sir.”

Hackett took a deep breath and stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back in a posture of seeming relaxation. In reality, he felt that were he to release them, they would shake uncontrollably with the mixture of passion and fear he felt.

He cleared his throat.

“Never before have so many come together—from all quarters of the galaxy. But never before have we faced an enemy such as this.” He glanced back over his shoulder to where Shepard stood: strong, silent, the foundation on which the entire alliance between races had been built.

“The Reapers will show us no mercy. We must give them no quarter. They will terrorize our populations. We must stand fast in the face of that terror.” He shifted his posture, gesturing with both hands for the benefit of the soldiers watching him on the bridge. “They will advance until our last city falls, but we will _not_ fall. We will _prevail_.”

He could see the soldiers standing straighter, encouraged by his words. After so long, they were finally returning, to take Earth back. They were coming home, and for the first time in a long time, they were allowing themselves to hope. “Each of us will be defined by our actions in the coming battle. Stand fast. Stand strong. Stand together.”

The Admiral took a deep breath and spoke the words he had spoken so many times before. “Hackett out.”

Specialist Traynor pressed a button on her console. “Confirmed transmission to all fleets.”

Hackett stepped down from the podium, nodding to Shepard. “Sword Fleet is in your hands now, Commander. I know you'll make humanity proud.”

“I won't let you down, sir,” said Shepard.

Admiral Hackett made his way back up towards the airlock, the marines escorting him falling in behind him as he did. There was more that he would have liked to say—more words of encouragement, or perhaps of farewell—but he did not look back. For the sake of the men and women watching behind him, he had to put up the same appearances as Shepard: calm, confident.

Invincible.

He felt anything but.

Hackett wasn't getting any younger. It seemed like he discovered new aches and pains every morning. He felt as stiff and starched as his uniform jacket, and only slightly more lively. Every time he looked in the mirror, he was reminded of how old he was. His hair was stark white, his face lined and wrinkled. Before the Reapers invaded, there had been some light-hearted ribbing from his peers about what an old stick like him was doing in command.

It had been a long time since he'd heard a joke like that. He almost missed them.

Hackett wondered, sometimes, how he would have lived out his life if the crisis with the Reapers had not emerged. He'd never made any real retirement plans: the Fifth Fleet had been his entire life, and the Alliance had been closer to him than his own family. Perhaps he would have served for the rest of his life, maintaining order across the galaxy and working together with the Council to ensure peace and prosperity for every race.

Perhaps that was still possible.

The airlock closed behind him, and Admiral Hackett closed his eyes. _And now... we wait. We wait, and we hope._

_Godspeed, Commander._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hackett has the worst job of anyone in the final mission: hanging back with Shield Fleet and waiting to be given the go-ahead. I really feel bad for him.


End file.
